


Fluctuations

by Liitohauki



Series: Lost and Loved [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Nál has a tenuous grasp on infant care, raised on Jötunheim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5073355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liitohauki/pseuds/Liitohauki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking care of an infant is no easy task. Nál is given cause to wonder if she's capable of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High Tide

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still alive, just in case anyone was wondering. I haven't been posting much, mainly because: 1) I've been distracted with life in general and 2) I've been working on longer installments to the series, none of which are far enough along to put up here.
> 
> So... here, have this piece of a thing about Nál adjusting to life with baby Loki.
> 
> If you hover the cursor over the Finnish text, an English translation should pop up. And, as always, all translations can also be found in the end notes.
> 
> Also, warnings for: Nál sometimes talking about abandoning a baby and using some pretty unkind epithets for baby Loki.

Nál is giddy with success the entire sleigh ride back to her mountain.

And why shouldn't she be? She has with her a splendid haul of armor and armament, blades and staves and bows and battlegear of cloth and metal - the very best of what was left of the finest forces two Great Realms had to offer.

And the crowning glory of her ever-growing collection, dozing fitfully inside a bloodied piece of yellow fabric slung around Nál's torso as a makeshift sling.

Yes, she is very pleased with herself.

She is _slightly_ less pleased when she arrives home and realizes she will have to forgo the task of arranging new inventory in favor of seeing to the needs of a blood-drenched, possibly injured and most definitely starved infant.

She spares a longing glance at her hoard of treasure before reluctantly parting with it, leaving the laden sleigh locked away in the shed beside the byre.

“Ei ne hetkessä haihdu, eikä tässä kestä kauaa. Ei se pidä kuin pestä ja ruokkia ja sitten laittaa nukkumaan,” she consoles herself as she unslings the impromptu baby harness and digs the squirming deadweight out from under stiff folds of gold and crimson.

Really, how long can this possibly take?

Nál hefts her charge level with her eyes, taking care to hold her firmly. It isn't very difficult to keep all of the baby supported; she could fashion a crib for the thing from the bones of one hand alone. “You are _tiny_ ,” she breathes out, awed despite herself.

It's not as though she hadn't noticed back at the temple, it's just... she hadn't _realized_.

“How did something as tiny as you manage to survive all alone in that vast, empty tomb?” she asks, turning the now curiously chirruping child this way and that to see if she might not of caught something upon her first assessment.

No easily apparent signs of injury. Discoloration around eyes and mouth suggests dehydration, malnutrition and exhaustion, suffered for an estimated period of two to three tides. Heartbeat elevated from expected baseline, likely due to abnormalities in size and condition. Active response to outside influences.

“Circumstances and symptoms indicate deprivation of nurturing contact for an estimated period of two to three tides, possible repercussions uncertain.” She isn't aware she's said the last part out loud until she's answered with a string of babbling nonsense.

“You have something to add, do you?” she asks with amusement. The infant chirps and flails about in response, flakes of dried blood raining down onto tamped snow from her wriggling limbs. “Yellers, you're filthy. I can't decide whether I should wash you or feed you first.”

Seeing as she now has an audience of one, she decides to put the matter to a vote. “Miten on: ruoka vai kylpy?”

In answer, the fleshfeeder turns and bites the side of her palm. Nál lets out a disgruntled hiss and tries to pull herself free; the baby hisses back, clamping down all the harder. She has to forcibly pry the baby's jaws open to save her hand.

“Well, if that wasn't answer enough,” Nál mutters as she bundles up the little beast in order to have a buffer between herself and those wicked little teeth before heading for the galley.

Once there, she notices the empty dishbasin and realizes she's found the end of two rivers by following one.

She fills out the bottom of the basin before dropping the dirty snapjaw into it, cape and all. “Now you just sit here and soak.” Fortunately, the baby seems perfectly content to splash about and entertain herself while Nál goes looking for the nursing milk substitute.

It's a good thing there are so many cases of infant malnutrition in the outlying towns and villages every cycle – it means she keeps a ready supply of everything she needs on hand. She measures out some fish oil and a generous portion of powder into a skin of tepid water and gives it a few vigorous shakes.

By the time she's done preparing the substitute, the liquid in the dishbasin has turned a lovely light blue with diluted blood, and the baby is almost free of her spots. There are still a few stubborn stains in the creases of her lines, but Nál can scrub those out after she's done feeding the child.

Unfortunately, she has no experience on how to actually go about it; when she simply offers the food, the baby tries a few bites at the hard mouthpiece, apparently finds it unpalatable and turns her face away with a discontented hiss.

Nál is at a loss. She knows natural nursing happens through skin, but how is she to manage it? She can't just slather the substitute onto herself – it isn't thick enough to stick, and she doesn't exactly relish the thought of letting the little beast hook those curved fangs of hers in a second time.

“Suppose I just hold you still and pour it down your gullet,” she finally decides, lifting the baby out of the drained basin and cradling her in the nook of one arm while guiding the skin of milk substitute to her mouth.

It proves easier said than sung; as soon as the first drop hits her lips, the troublesome eel won't stop squirming and whining and _chomping_ at her.

“Don't you snap your jaws at me. I'm trying to help you stay alive, you ungrateful little parasite,” Nál grouses as she struggles to keep hold of the child while simultaneously trying to get some food _into_ her instead of _on_ her.

“No not the bag, you useless larva, put your maw on the- kh, almost, if I can just- Kah! Stop clawing at me and stay still, you...”

Whenever the waterskin gets anywhere near the baby's head, she ignores the opening of the container – the one part she actually needs to put her mouth on _–_ in favor of biting at the leather like a savage animal _,_ until at last she manages to sink her incisors in so fiercely Nál hasn't a hope of pulling the vessel away without breaking some teeth.

Though she's tempted to try regardless. The chomper could stand to lose a few fangs, and they would grow back soon enough.

Instead, Nál corks the mouth of the skin with a resigned sigh. What would be the use? Easier to let her keep gnawing on it until she punctures through the leather. In fact, it's probably the only way the baby knows how to feed; infants were meant to latch onto their parents' tough hides during nursing, after all.

Which, frankly stated, sounds horrifying to her. “How in the Ocean does our species continue to exist when we birth such appallingly unappealing young?” she muses as she watches the bottomfeeder suckle on the side of the ruined waterskin.

So much of the tide wasted on the needs of this creature, and to what end? The child will be worse than useless for several cycles yet, if she'll ever be useful at all – nothing but a loud, inconvenient drain on resources, completely dependent on the kindness or cruelty of her caretaker for her very _survival,_ through no fault of her own...

Maybe she ought to leave the child with someone else.

“I wager the only reason most parents feel obligated to take care of their children is because they went through the trouble of making them – Yellers only know why. Unfortunate for you, since all _I_ had to do was pick you up from the floor. I won't feel a lick of remorse casting you out if you annoy me too much.”

The baby ignores her until she's sucked the waterskin dry. Then she detaches from it with a messy smack and starts making whiny _eh eh eh_ noises, scrunching her face into an unhappy snarl.

“Mitä mie juuri sanoin?” Nál says to her with exasperation, hefting her by the armpits and depositing her back into the dishbasin, which she refills with fresh water. “Keep making that noise and I'll return you to where I found you – ot worse yet, hand you over to the first stranger I meet.”

Of course, she would probably sound more convincing were she not fighting a smile as she works at the stains on her child's skin with an old dishsbrush; the pup apparently dislikes the sensation of soft bristles scraping against her back, for she snaps and hisses at the scrubber over her shoulder like a disgruntled varg.

Nál waves the brush in front of the baby's face, laughing at her increasingly agitated attempts to kill it. “My, what a fierce beast I've taken for myself,” she murmurs to herself, “will your bite dull with age, I wonder?”

After a few more teasing swipes, she puts the brush aside in favor of a wetted cloth, which she uses to wipe the child's face before rubbing away the last stubborn remnants of blood from her lines. “There now.” She lifts the fingerling from the water and sets her down on a dry dish towel.

Like this, clean and fed and happy, she hardly looks like the sole survivor of a massacre that will leave their people wounded and bleeding for generations to come.

“But you don't know anything about that, do you?” Nál pokes at a newly bloated belly and is rewarded with a delighted giggle. She rubs a finger over the lines on the baby's chest and abdomen. “No, you don't care one whit for the fate of your people. And why should you? They built their own boat, now they have to burn in it.”

Her tone grows more pensive as she pulls her hand away and murmurs, “Now we all have to burn in it...”

Only one problem left to solve before she puts the little one to bed: how to keep her from dragging her bare behind all over the furniture?

Looking around for something to use as a napkin for the baby, she lights on the torn piece of fabric left soaking in the dishbasin – the cape is permanently bloodstained and still moist even after she's wrung it dry and absorbed as much water from it as she could, but it will have to do.

She takes a perverse sort of pleasure in wrapping the proud mantle of some noble Asgardian around the rear end of a jötun.

Once done, she tugs the baby into the crook of her elbow and starts her way back to the upper chambers. “Nukuttaako?” she asks the infant in her arms. In answer, the child gives a slow blink and puffs a cool breath into Nál's side.

Maybe she can be lulled into unconciousness? Nál tries talking to her in a deep, thrumming voice, “I'd be _exhausted_ if I were you. All that time spent scared and hungry and all alone, screaming for someone, _anyone_ to notice you – it must have been so _tiring_. You must feel very sleepy. _Sleeeeep_.”

She glances down, hopeful, but the baby's eyes are still open and staring right at her. She sighs. “This calls for more drastic measures.” Now how did it go again..? “Fair warning: I only know three lullabies, and I'm terrible at composing my own.”

The arm cradling the child begins to swing from side to side, hesitantly at first, growing more confident as she finds a rhythm to match the pace of her movements.

And as she sways in time with her steps, she starts to sing, low and lilting, “ _Tuuti tuuti tuulen oma/ ken on sinut tänne tuoma?_ ” She changes her voice a little on the reply, “ _Toi miut tänne viiman virta/ purjehtijan luottovirta._ ”

Is she imagining it, or are the pup's blinks lasting a little longer?

She hums through the interlude, which stretches and stretches as she wracks her mind for the lyrics of the second verse. They reach the door to the gathering room connecting all of the living quarters before she finally remembers, “ _Mistäs löysit tiesi tänne?_ ”

“ _Sieltä löysin tieni tänne,_ ” Nál answers herself as she traverses the hall to enter her sleeping chamber, “ _missä aalto vuonot suopi/ missä saive'et lunta luopi._ ” In her arms, the little one is beginning to nod off; she needs a place where she can settle to sleep.

Nál looks first to her own bedding – to the comfortable, clean nest of furs and stuffed leather meant solely for her use – and immediately decides the fingerling is better served by a more cozy cot.

Ah, that scrying bowl will do nicely.

“ _Mistäs tunsit meiän portin?”_ she croons as she drags the carved skullcap closer and pads its hollow headspace with the smallest, softest pelt from her bed,  “ _Siitä tunsin uuen portin/ haka alla, pyörä päällä/ karhun talja portin päällä._ ”

The baby clings to her, but her grip is too feeble to hold on for long; she settles into her new cradle with a tired huff, red eyes winking open and shut ponderously. Nál renews her lullaby as she begins to gently rock the scrying bowl on its round base.

“... _Haka alla, pyörä päällä/ karhun talja portin päällä._ ”

Her voice has turned scratchy and dull by the time the child at last falls to slumber. She hardly dares believe it at first, casting a furtive glance down into the makeshift cradle. “Haaskalintu?” she whispers, “Ootko yhä hereillä?”

Not so much as an errant twitch.

Slowly, softly, _silently_ , she creeps her way out of the sleeping chamber, away from the living quarters and back into the night, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps outside.

A quick look at the moons confirms her resigned suspicions – she's wasted nearly a full eighth caring for the child, meaning she hasn't enough time to sort through any of the things she brought home from the temple before she has to go and see to the vargs.

Strangely, this doesn't bother her overmuch.

She sets towards the varg den with a hum, feeling very pleased with herself. It may have taken her a drop longer than she though, but she's done it: the baby is clean and fed and oblivious to the world around her, sleeping safe from harm in her own little bed.

Maybe raising a child won't be as difficult as it seems.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ei ne hetkessä haihdu, eikä tässä kestä kauaa. Ei se pidä kuin pestä ja ruokkia ja sitten laittaa nukkumaan.” = "They won't disappear if I stop looking, and this will only take a moment. All I have to do is feed her and bathe her and put her to bed."
> 
> "Miten on: ruoka vai kylpy?" = "How about it: bath or food?"
> 
> "Mitä mie juuri sanoin?" = "What did I just say?"
> 
> "Haaskalintu? Ootko yhä hereillä?" = "Carrion bird? You still awake?"
> 
> Lullaby:
> 
> Oh, oh, oh windborne,  
> who has brought you to our home?  
> Brought was I by Vimur's flow  
> on sailor's trusty cold-cast blow.
> 
> Say now, from whence came you?  
> Over foaming waves I flew,  
> over where the white fjords grow,  
> where the water falls on snow.
> 
> How came you to know our gate?  
> I came to know it by each trait:  
> Wheel above and field below,  
> jyrhi's pelt upon gate's bow.
> 
> The lullaby Nál sings is based on an old Finnish song called "Tuu, tuu, tupakkarulla"
> 
> Of course, the version in the fic is heavily modified to fit the setting - I ended up totally rewriting the first verse and adding a new verse in the middle. With the last verse, though, I just changed one word from an actual animal to a made up one (jyrhi).


	2. Ebb Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I would try to get the second chapter out by November? Well, turns out I'm a liar. Sorry.
> 
> If you hover the cursor over the Finnish text, an English translation should pop up. And, as always, all translations can also be found in the end notes.
> 
> Again, warning for Nál referring to a baby as a pest, a thing, a horror etc.

Her vargs greet her with familiar exuberance as soon as she gets near the entrance to the den, skipping and jumping their way out to her in a small avalanche of lolling tongues and wagging tails.

Soon she’s surrounded by a school of furry heads all vying for a place within arm’s reach of her. “Alright, alright,” Nál grumbles as she struggles to keep track of every beast that pushes its way under her outstretched hands, “settle down. I was only gone for half the tide.”

Apparently, it was half a tide too long. Such needy, attention-starved creatures…

Whether she’s gone a moment or a moon, the vargs are always eager to see her – which means when she comes back from _anywhere_ , Nál has to waste her precious time getting sniffed and slobbered over before she’s allowed to go about her tasks in peace.

As usual, she tolerates the ordeal with only a _small_ measure of annoyance; getting mobbed on arrival by a bunch of easily excitable animals is a small price to pay for all the vargs offer her in return, after all.

It takes her nearly an eighth of a quarter to pet her way out of the pile, what with each of the pests demanding a turn under her ministrations. Once she’s done, she leads the beasts up the mountainside to the high pasture, where she is immediately beset upon by the _rest_ of the pack.

After yet another round of stroking and scratching at an assortment of horned heads, she finally shoos the vargs away so she can take stock of the herd placidly gracing on the scraggly vegetation sprouting all around the steaming pools pockmarking the plateau.

The hallaporo, at least, have sense enough not to crowd around her as she walks through their ranks.

Counting up her herd as she goes along is an ingrained habit by now, as natural to her as keeping an eye on the moons or casting to feel out her footing every third step of the way: _Rapalonkka , Talipää, Rohmu, Ikikitinä, Melukas…_

She can see Ruoskalapa and Kuokkakavio  haven’t strayed on their way over to the pasture. Just for that, Nál spares the pair a pat on their flanks as she passes. They don’t so much as lift their heads to look her way, though Ruoskalapa does feel cordial enough to flick her with its tail.

She keeps counting.

 _…Lokakirsu, Katala, Kuhnuri, Tuo ja Tuotoinen. _Nál breathes a sigh of relief as she gets to the end of her list. All present and accounted for. Looks as though her vargs have done as they ought and kept the herd in line while she was away.

Good. No need to go haring off after stragglers, then.

She takes a quick swig from the flask at her hip and wets her lips before bringing a hand up to her mouth. A sharp whistle lets the vargs know she’s heading back; the three relieved from guard duty flock to her, competing to see who gets to take the lead in the procession.

After a not-so-accidental collision followed by a playful scuffle, it’s Kaita who emerges victorious. It bounces over to Nál for a congratulatory pat and then, with her permission, darts down the path to “scout” ahead. Auvo follows close on its heels, ill-content to leave such a _vital_ task to a young pup.

Trailing well behind both comes Usva. Rather than racing down the mountainside like its pack mates, it seems happy enough to settle into an easy trot beside Nál. “Etkö jaksa juosta?” she asks it, ruffling the fur around its ears. It earns her a reproachful nip to the shoulder.

“Hyvä on, hyvä on, olet vielä elämäsi kunnossa,” Nál laughs, rubbing a conciliatory hand around the varg’s horns. Her companion looks conflicted, as though it can’t decide between pushing into her touch and taking another bite out of her for laughing at it.

They reach the base of the mountain before Usva reaches a decision, so Nál is spared a painful reprimand for her good humor. She leaves the vargs to frolic in the snow – well, two of them; Usva looks more in mind to settle for a nap – while she moves inside to tidy the den.

It’s short and pleasant work, for a change: She left home with plenty of warning, so the troughs are freshly filled and nothing’s been destroyed or spat up in a fit of pique. Nál finds herself humming as she sweeps the floor and dusts up the nests to make sure no one’s hidden a half-rotten rodent carcass underneath the bedding.

Yellers, the vermin are something she’ll have to watch for more closely now, aren’t they? Wouldn’t want the baby sinking its teeth into something she shouldn’t – or something sinking its teeth into _her_.

And what of the vargs, then: can she trust them near an infant? They’re as well-bred and well-behaved as any tame animals – better, really. They’re _hers,_ after all – but they’re also unruly enough to crush a child entirely by accident.

Nál’s not in the habit of letting any of her beasts past the foyer, but she’ll have to forbid even that, now. It’ll upset the vargs something awful, but they’ll get used to it. Eventually.

Her content humming slowly peters out into troubled silence as she contemplates the matter further.

She’ll have to overhaul _everything_ to make room for all the tedious tasks of childcare: nursing and washing and lulling the baby to sleep, helping her molt her skin, actually _rearing_ her until she’s capable enough to take care of herself…

Assuming the child will even survive to such an age in a place as dangerous as this. All the traps around the premises will have to be dismantled, every hex disabled, every ward reconfigured to admit a second person unhindered passage – everywhere except for the deep chambers, of course.

 _Those_ she’ll just have to cordon off until she can think of a way to child-proof a bunch of submerged tunnels coated in poisonous algae and swarming with moras.

Mountain Yeller have mercy, what possessed her to bring an infant here?

No, it’s alright. Everything is fine. Nál will simply have to set up a few new wards, to make sure the baby doesn’t wander anywhere she shouldn’t. And retrain the vargs to stay out of the foyer, and to not _eat_ the baby. And shuffle her duties around to make room for the baby. And…

By the time she puts down the broom and heads back outside, her thoughts are awhirl with Things That Have to Change. In her mind, the inevitable looms like a dark cloud over the placid surface of her heretofore peaceful existence.

The vargs are waiting for her by the entrance to the den. Something seems to have disturbed them – Usva stands erect on its hind legs, gaze darting about and ears pricked to catch the slightest sight or sound out of place, while Auvo and Kaita circle around the courtyard uneasily.

“Mikä hätänä?” she asks, but Usva is only able to answer with an agitated chitter as it keeps flicking its ears and swiveling its head this way and that. Nál’s worry grows, but a quick check of the outer wards tells her everything is as she’d left it.

Strange. It’s not like the vargs to get spooked over nothing.

Then again, maybe they’re merely wary of the impending change in weather; when she looks to the sky, Nál notices two faint halos just beginning to form around the bright glow of the moons – a sure sign of a coming storm. Only a tide or two out from the mountains by the looks of it.

Splendid. Yet another gust to throw her off course.

With a tired curse, Nál sets out back towards the pasture – she’ll have to bring the herd down the mountain before the storm hits – only to get waylaid by Usva, who seems to have decided that now is the _perfect_ time to test her waning patience by being as loud and annoying as possible.

“Ei nyt, Usva,” she tells it, trying to move past, but the varg won’t get out of her way. It simply keeps nattering at her, a constant stream of irritatingly high-pitched _ek-ek-ek_ sounds that Nál has learned to interpret through long experience as “ _something feels wrong, you better do a head count._ ”

Which makes it all the more puzzling when the useless cur still won’t let her go check on the herd. “Mitä? Mitä sie haluat miun tekevän? Kaikki muut on _tuossa suunnassa_!” She gestures at the path Usva is so determinedly blocking.

In response, the varg growls and butts its head into her chest forcefully enough to send her stumbling back - and when Nál growls back and tries once more to move past it, it _bites_ her.

Though she’s hardly injured, it’s enough to loosen the already tenuous grip Nál has on her temper. “Mikä sinua vaivaa?” she snarls at the beast, twisting one hand into its scruff while the other grabs hold at the base of one of its horns. “You – do _not_ – get – to herd – me!”

She heaves.

Usva’s _really_ dug its claws in this time, but it’s got more stubborn than strength left, and Nál’s long been able to best it at both; she has the varg pinned on its side before it can so much as _think_ of biting her again. “Are you going to behave now?” she asks it, taking care to hold its head in place without pressing down too hard on its neck.

After a moment of fruitless struggling, Usva breathes out a gusty sigh and goes limp. When Nál doesn’t immediately release her hold, it follows up its grudging surrender with an aggrieved whine and thumps its tail against the ground, sending up a dusting of fresh snow.

It’s as much compliance as she can ever expect from one of her vargs. With a sigh of her own, Nál lets Usva get back on its feet. “Calmed down now, have you?” she mutters as she flicks snow off her shoulders. Usva responds with a malcontent _hrrmph_.

“Fine. You can spend the rest of the tide feeling sorry for yourself in the den.” She points at the open gates behind her, which sets the varg in motion – bounding towards the direction of _Nál’s_ den.

Honestly, some tides she wonders why she bothers to put up with such intractable animals.

Usva is waiting for her at the entrance to the main compound, looking unbearably satisfied with itself. Nál blows out a frustrated breath before approaching the varg, complimenting it through gritted teeth, “Alright, well done. You’ve been very clever. Now how about you come here…”

She lunges for the miscreant, but it dances out of reach, disappearing into the caverns before she can get a firm grip on it. All she earns for her efforts is a fistful of loose fur and the unshaking certainty that she should have bred for _obedience_ rather than _self-reliance_.

“Usva!” Her furious shout goes echoing through the foyer as she chases after the varg, who seems to have stopped to listen for something just outside the intersection between the exit, the living quarters and the bathing chambers. “You come back here right now so I can—!”

She’s brought to a halt by a strange noise filling the halls: a hoarse, mourning howl, as of some wailing horror plucked right out of a tale about the restless dead…

…or of a young child recently awoken alone in a strange bed.

“You. Out. Now.” Mercifully, Usva seems in no mood for further shenanigans. In fact, it’s all too eager to flee to safety now that it’s proven Nál wrong.

A wise choice, given how _calm_ and _thankful_ Nál is not.

She’s still seething by the time she reaches the door to her sleeping chamber. _Maltti on valttia_ , she reminds herself, pulling in a deep breath before entering – and then holding it in so she doesn’t do something as thoughtless and inadvisable as yell at the baby to _stop making that noise_.

Thrudgelmir give her strength, that cry is one of the most unpleasant sounds she has ever heard.

“Hyvä on, hyvä on, tässä olen. Hys nyt, hys,” she mutters as she goes to collect the source, who has managed to upend her makeshift bed and is currently sitting under it, presumably trying to burst both her lungs and her larynx through overuse.

Instead of quieting, the baby actually screams _louder_ once she’s in Nál’s arms. Though granted, it might only seem as if it were so to Nál, seeing as she’s just elevated the howling lump closer to her ears.

…and to her nose.

“What is that abhorrent stench? Is that you?” She takes a cautious sniff before thrusting the baby as far away from herself as she’s able. “Of course it’s you. What other creature would be capable of such a rank odor?”

No wonder the little beast is so upset; she’s been stewing in her own filth while Nál was out tending to her chores.

After rummaging about for an underkilt she won’t mind ruining forever, Nál decides to head for the galley – the dishbasin proved itself an adequate bath tub last time, and this way she can feed the child right after washing and changing her.

She practically runs to her destination, eager to be rid of the _smell_ and the _noise_ and the— is there something oozing out of the swathe of cloth covering the baby’s rear?!

“Kuvottavaa. Kuuletko? Sinä olet kuvottava,” Nál tells her charge as she deposits her into the basin and starts to untangle the soiled cape from around the child’s flailing legs, grumbling all the while. “If you would only hold still... There, see? Now you’ve made an even bigger mess of yourself. Just stop squirming and let me take this off...”

When she finally manages, she wastes no time in getting rid of the improvised napkin – giving it a perfunctory rinse before dropping it into the cauldron she uses to boil her dishrags – and then sets about washing the baby.

The pup is much more accommodating during her bath; she quiets down as soon as the water hits her skin, bringing a blessed end to both the squirming and the scratchy screech that was threatening to drive Nál into puncturing her own ear drums.

“You’re not half so annoying when you’re not making a nuisance of yourself,” she mutters to the little irritant once she has her clean and covered and sat down on the counter, all without a fuss.

For a moment, Nál dares to congratulate herself on getting marginally better at this sort of thing.

Then the baby’s smile starts twisting into a frown.

“No, no, no … I told you, I will toss you out of my home if you—! Wait, no, I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you, I— I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do this, I thought we _agreed_ … Here, see? Food, I’m making food– Are you hungry? Is that why you’re..? Alright, give me a little time and I’ll– here’s the oil and the skin, now where did I put that damn powder…”

Nál pulls out half her pantry before she remembers leaving the jar of substitute out in the open, ready for when next she would need it. She curses her own forethought as she stumbles back to the counter and starts measuring out dried substitute by hand, scattering fine white dust all over herself.

“Älä itke vielä älä itke vielä älä itke… Tässä!” She shakes up the leaking waterskin – she’s not about to ruin another perfectly good container – before thrusting it forward with all the desperation of a lone hunter brandishing her spear against a charging direvarg.

It gives the beast she’s facing pause.

The baby’s face momentarily unscrews itself as she noses at the leather, smearing her supper all along cheek and jowl instead of eating it. Nál can’t decide between irritation – she _just_ washed that face – or relief; she doesn’t understand why the baby isn’t latching on as before, but she’s glad another crying fit seems to have been averted.

At least until the baby decides she doesn’t _like_ the sensation of milk substitute drying on her skin. Then Nál is back to wiping a soft towel over her child’s sensitive skin while asking herself: “ _What in the Deep does this thing want?_ ”

“Alright, so you aren’t hungry. You definitely aren’t constipated. You can’t be tired yet. You aren’t– ei, päästä irti, tää riepu on tarkoitettu siun saastaiselle naamalle–”

Such a greedy little monster. With a sigh, she relinquishes hold of all but one corner of the tattered cloth, which she uses to dab the infant’s jaw clean while she talks.

“—you aren’t soaking in your own refuse anymore. And yet, you keep making that face.” As if understanding her, the tiny thief seems to grow bored with the damp rag she’s stolen; she looks up at Nál with eyes open mournfully wide, lips all a-quiver and brows puckered into a displeased little furrow.

“Yes, _that_ face.” Nál hefts the baby level with her own eyes. “What is it? Do you need something? Are you toying with me? Is there something wrong?”

The baby blinks incomprehension once, twice. Then she opens her mouth and _screams_.

And screams. And screams.

Nál pets her, tries to distract her with treats and toys, pretends to ignore her, commands her to be quiet, checks her over for signs of injury; in short, she exhausts her very limited arsenal of how to calm something down without either drugging or dousing it, to no avail.

At her wits end, she finally resorts to pacing throughout her home in the hopes that the constant motion will lull the child to sleep.

It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

After what feels like three leagues traveled in endless circles around the circumference of the gathering room, Nál is about ready to toss the horrid pest into the varg den and have done with her.

The only thing staying her hand is pride: She'll be damned before she admits defeat.

Scores of people vastly more incompetent than her have managed to rear their young into some semblance of adulthood before getting rid of them – if some dry-minded puddlewallower can accomplish the least decency of not abandoning a helpless infant, then so can she.

In her arms, the accursed howler lets out another ice shattering screech.

“Hys, hys,” she shushes, rocking the source of the unholy racket back and forth as she sings, “ _Tuuti, tuuti, tuulen oma_...” Her voice cracks and groans like a breaking glacier, too worn and dry to amount to much more than a tired croak.

The baby yells louder.

At her wits end, she dangles the squalling whelp at eye level and yells at her, “Mikset sie voi lopettaa huutamasta? You're clean and fed and well rested, so why won't you stop crying? What do you want? Just tell me! I'll give you anything so long as you STOP CRYING!”

All it seems to serve is to alarm her vargs, as soon enough, Usva comes creeping in through the foyer to investigate all the noise. Its high-pitched chitters of distress are an irritating counterpoint to the keening just beside Nál's ear.

“Ei, Usva. Kuka antoi siulle luvan tulla takaisin sisälle?” she snaps at it, temper so frayed it's half a twist away from unraveling into roving made purely of frustration and anger. Yellers, she's so tired. She can't remember when last she had a single solitary moment free of all this incessant _noise_.

And now her varg has turned on her, _again_ ; instead of leaving, the disobedient cur actually has the temerity to slink closer, chirping and nattering at her in an effort to ask what's wrong.

“Oh, so _you_ won't listen to me either?” she snarls at it. It shrinks back with a frightened hiss, averting its head so it can peer at her from its right guardeye alone. Yet poised to flee as it is, still it lingers, refusing to obey.

Just like the babe in her arms.

“Hyvä on, nyt riitti. Usva, tänne!” She points to the ground in front of her, and Usva crawls forward, apprehension writ large in every line of its body. “Want to make yourself useful, do you? Very well then: eat this.” She holds out the squirming bundle of noise that has quickly become the bane of her existence.

It's a nonsense request; all she really wants is for the baby to be scared quiet, or else for the baby to scare away Usva.

But instead of snarling at or fleeing from the wailing horror thrust at its head, the animal simply takes a cautious whiff before nudging her with its nose, prompting the baby to latch onto the varg's muzzle with all the tenacity of a hungry suckerfish.

It takes Nál a wave or two to realize the screaming has stopped, largely because an echo of the keening has gotten stuck within her ears. When she does realize, she can hardly believe it. “You precious, beautiful beast,” she croons at Usva, “you absolute wonder, you. What did you _do_?”

She tries to set the baby down so she can bestow a well-deserved head rub to her helper – and to save it from getting all its whiskers yanked out – but the moment she tries to pry the little nuisance away from the varg's face, the baby starts making a terribly ominous, hiccoughing whine.

Nál nearly shoves the child into the varg's maw in her haste to press her back against its snout. “Alright now, be patient,” she says in response to Usva's betrayed stare, “I'll make sense of this. There has to be a way of getting her off without making her resume her yowling...”

Though for the lines on her, she can't see how. She doesn't even understand why the fingerling is so set on remaining where she is; the varg's bristly whiskers can't be comfortable for her soft skin. And yet still, the little one's rubbing herself all over Usva's wet nose as though–

“Ei ole mahdollista,” she mutters to herself, leaving the baby hanging precariously from Usva's muzzle while she fetches some water. “It can’t be that simple. It can't be.”

But it is.

As soon as the water drips down her back, the child turns her attention from the varg's nose to her mother, reaching one chubby little arm upwards towards the source of the wetness dripping all over her while letting out that strange hiccoughing sound again.

Nál has half a mind to strike herself. Yellers, how could she have been so unobservant?

Newborns have to spend their first moon or so submerged. It stands to reason that even after they've developed enough to survive in dry air, babies might find being out of water a peculiar and uncomfortable experience.

“Hyvä on,” Nál sighs as she hoists her little howler off of Usva with damp hands, “to the pools with you.” Or, wait, should she just head for the galley and fill up the dishbasin? The baby seemed perfectly content in there, before.

Though that was for a short while only – a little tub like that certainly isn’t a viable longterm solution.

Which begs the question: what _are_ the optimal aquatic conditions for an infant? Does the water need to be fresh or salinated? How much of the child's air intake will come from absorption through liquid? And what of the water's purity? Maybe the mineral content in the–

A piercing whine interrupts her musings.

Nál abruptly decides to take her chances with the bathing chambers.

Just to be safe, though, she opts to fill out one of the smaller pools just off the main facilities – the ones she presumes were meant for people with uncommonly sensitive or impermeable skin, based on the additional aeration and fluid regulation charms inscribed along the rims.

Once she’s set the fingerling to splash about in a rapidly growing puddle of excessively filtered water, Nál finds she hasn't quite the stamina to keep to her feet. She drops herself down by the edge of the pool with a quiet huff, slouching over her knees in exhaustion.

Yellers, she’s so _tired_. It feels as though she hasn’t had a moment’s peace since she came back from the temple.

Perhaps that’s why: perhaps she’s been cursed for trespassing in a sacred space. Perhaps what she actually found inside that temple was some sort of anointed guardian – a marras, forged in the shape of a child and left behind by the Voices of Aurgelmir to lure the invading Asgardians to their doom.

Down in the pool, her curse is burbling happily as she chases after self-made ripples in the water.

Nál snorts at her own thoughts.

Really, a marras disguised as a jötun infant? Surely the Voices would have known to expect nothing less than a swift death for such a poor ruse. No, if the priests at the temple had devised a trap for the Asgardians, they would have made it look like something the invaders might actually care about.

She is clearly too tired to keep her wits about her – that’s the only explanation for why her mind’s wandering down such badly-tended paths. If she could only find some time for a quick rest…

Well, she has the time now, hasn’t she? The baby is finally quiet, her ears have stopped ringing, and the slew of monitoring spells all around the pool will alert her if something happens to the child.

Really, what’s the harm in laying down her head for just a moment?

It’s the last thought she has before she lays back and closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Etkö jaksa juosta?" = "Too tired to run?"
> 
> “Hyvä on, hyvä on, olet vielä elämäsi kunnossa." = "Alright, alright, you're still in fine shape."
> 
> "Mikä hätänä?" = "What's wrong?"
> 
> "Ei nyt, Usva." = "Not now, Usva."
> 
> “Mitä? Mitä sie haluat miun tekevän? Kaikki muut on tuossa suunnassa!" = "What? What do you want me to do? Everyone else is in that direction!"
> 
> "Mikä sinua vaivaa?" = "What is wrong with you?"
> 
> "Maltti on valttia." = "Patience is a virtue." (lit. "Patience/restraint is a trump card.")
> 
> "Hyvä on, hyvä on, tässä olen. Hys nyt, hys." = "Alright, alright, here I am. Hush now, hush."
> 
> "“Kuvottavaa. Kuuletko? Sinä olet kuvottava." = "Disgusting. You hear me? You are disgusting."
> 
> “Älä itke vielä älä itke vielä älä itke… Tässä!” = "Don't cry yet don't cry yet don't cry... Here!"
> 
> "Ei, päästä irti, tää riepu on tarkoitettu siun saastaiselle naamalle–” = "No, let go, this rag is meant for your filthy face-"
> 
> “Mikset sie voi lopettaa huutamasta?" = "Why can't you stop screaming?"
> 
> “Ei, Usva. Kuka antoi siulle luvan tulla takaisin sisälle?” = "No, Usva. Who gave you permission to come back inside?"
> 
> “Hyvä on, nyt riitti. Usva, tänne!” = "Alright, that's enough. Usva, come here!"
> 
> "Ei ole mahdollista." = "It can't be."
> 
> Hallaporo names: Spatterhip (Rapalonkka), Tallowhead (Talipää), Glutton (Rohmu), Everwhine (Ikikitinä), Noisy (Melukas), Slushnose (Lokakirsu), Vile (Katala), Laggard (Kuhnuri), That (Tuo) and That-Other-One (Tuotoinen)
> 
> Varg names: Narrow (Kaita), Bliss (Auvo), Mist (Usva)
> 
> In Finnish myth, a marras is an ill omen, a sort of mark of death: Seeing or getting a marras meant you or someone you knew was going to die or that something bad was going to happen. Here, I'm using the term to mean a particular kind of lethal/harmful spell.


End file.
